


If The Stars Fade, What Will We Become?

by Redferns



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Female Reader, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 03:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redferns/pseuds/Redferns
Summary: A kidnapped uncle, a team called U.N.C.L.E, and an Ex-MI6 agent walk into a convoluted plot bar that involves fake relationships (again) fancy dinner parties, and other heart warming situations. Punch line: Two of them fall in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This spawned from a burning need for self indulgent slow burn fic, why not celebrate with this long ass dumpster fire? Anyways, if you're reading this, thank you!!

It was a calming evening. The rain was coming in droves, restlessly battering the roofs and ground below. The grey sky grumbled far into the night. You were leaning against the balcony railing of your small apartment, watching the cars go by, smelling the fresh rain, feeling some rogue drops hit your face and arms. 

Time passed with no indication. Cars passed less frequently, and soon, you couldn’t see any. The rain showed no sign of letting up, and you didn’t want to go inside or sleep quite yet. 

You were so far gone in your stupor, that the ringing coming from inside was almost ignored. Soon enough, you realised it was yours, and rushed inside to pick it up. 

A familiar voice was on the other end of the call. “I’m sorry If I woke you up, but this is important.”  
You glanced at the clock. It was almost 1am. “Uncle Alexander?” Your posture straightened instinctually. “I wasn’t sleeping, don’t worry. What’s going on?” 

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, darling. Some agents are coming to lay low in your apartment for a few nights.” 

Immediately there was a growing irritation. “What?! Uncle, you know I don’t do this anymore!” Your voice began to rise, although careful of the time. “And what, you don’t speak to me for almost a year, and now I’m supposed to babysit your messes again?” 

Alexander paused again. “I am so sorry to just spring this on you, but you know I wouldn’t have done this if there were any other options.” He sounded desperate. “And I can only trust you with this team. Please, you don’t have to do anything other than let them stay.” 

Your anger swayed at the fatigue in his voice. “Fine.” you sighed. “But you owe me, okay?” 

There was a moment of relief from Alexander. “Thank you, darling. I won’t forget it.” 

“--Wait!” You try to interject, but it’s too late. The other end was gone. Great. You don’t know how many people are coming, or when, or ……. Whatever. Although it was slightly worrying, Alexander Waverly tended to have everything under control at all times. Well, you trust him, despite everything. The rain persisted, impervious to the events that have ensued.

Once the phone was back on the table, you began to tidy the apartment. Cushions and extra blankets get piled on the floor, as an attempt to create some kind of makeshift bedding for your guests. The clock read 1:47am, you could feel the weight of the day on your eyes and limbs as the day finally catches up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter friends! Now with extra muscle appreciation and weird moments! <3

You’re startled awake by clicking and sounds from the door. Groggily, you get up from your nesting spot on the floor. It was still raining, the sky dark and misty.

The door was unlocked and open by the time you stumbled in. Two figures stood in the hall, soaking wet. One was on his knees, holding, _lockpicks?_ The tallest in the back was holding his arm, with blood soaking through the fabric.

“What, didn’t expect someone?” you said, moving out to grab towels and let your guests in. They did enter, slowly and suspicious. “I’m assuming you’re the guys Waverly said were coming?”

The tallest one spoke first. “Who are you?” Huh, russian. That was interesting. He didn’t sound great, his voice too deep and too gravelly to be normal.

“Waverly told us that this was a safe house.” The other man said.

 _Of course he did_ . You held out the towels. “Well, this is definitely a safe house. It is also _my_ house.” You usher the injured one to the couch. “What the hell happened? All of you look wrecked. Hey! Don’t move” you scold the big one, running to the bathroom to grab a first aid kit.

He hadn’t moved, other than taking off his jacket and shirt to inspect the wound. The two others were drying off with the towels and peeling outer layers and hanging them on chairs to dry.

“Don’t worry, I got it.” you waved the dark haired one away as he reached for the kit. “I know what I’m doing.” It wasn’t a bluff, you’ve sewn up a _lot_ of ugly wounds in your day and this one seemed relatively clean. Even though you weren’t specifically medical, the steadiness and deftness of your hands were unmatched.

The injury in question was a jagged gash, a fair few inches lengthwise along the blond’s bicep. Blood was soaking the shirt that was being used to apply pressure and the man looked even paler than he did before.

With the towel you gently pat the area, soaking up as much moisture as possible. “Hang on, yeah? It’ll be fine.. You’re gonna be okay..” you continue muttering to yourself, as you put down the towel and start to clean and sanitise. The skin was warm under your fingers, brushing past the sinewy curves of his bicep.  He was remarkably stoic, barely reacting to the movement. Even as you began to suture into the flesh, his jaw was locked and his fists were clenched. No sound escaped him other than low, strained breaths.

The blond broke the tense silence. “You never answered my question. Who are you?” His accent was even thicker than you remembered from earlier.

 _Stitch._ “Don’t talk.” That earned a glare from grumpy. “I’m a friend of Alexander Waverly’s, so you can relax and take your hands off the guns. I’m not going to stab your friend to death with this needle.” _Stitch._ The woman and dark haired one shifted, although stayed rigid, watching you cautiously. _Stitch._ “I am curious as to who you three are. An American, a Russian, and… you?” You glanced at the woman, she hadn’t talked yet and looked pretty ambiguous. European, at least. _Stitch._ “And how do you all know Waverly? Are you all in MI6? Give me some kind of indication that I can trust that you’re not going to stab me in my sleep, please.” _Loop over, and out. Tighten, but not too much._

The dark haired man leaned back in his seat. “I can’t guarantee that, but I’m Napoleon Solo. Our wonderful lady friend here is Gaby Teller. The Red Peril, in more ways than one, is Illya Kuryakin.” Illya rolled his eyes with a resigned huff. At least he listened to you and didn’t talk, although it didn’t seem like he talked much anyways.

“We do not work specifically with MI6, at least not all of us. Waverly is our… handler? He commands us, for the time being.” Gaby explained. That made sense. Uncle Waverly liked to talk about getting an international team together, fighting bad guys and saving the world. It never seemed realistic. He had asked you whether you wanted to be a part of it too. Well, good on him, finally getting what he wanted.

You grabbed the bandages. “So, what did happen? You all look like hell, and I know Waverly wouldn’t have called me unless it was an emergency.” The russian, _-Illya-,_ hissed. “Oh fuck, sorry.” You didn’t realise your hands had stopped and bumped against the stitches. You began winding the bandage around quickly.

Gaby was watching with concern. “We were ambushed, somehow it was tipped off where we would be and what we were doing. Illya was watching us and tried to stop them. We got away, but not without our entire operation going completely south.” She explained.

You fastened the bandages on Illya. “And what exactly were you doing?” you asked. Ah betrayal, the worst _and best_ way for shit to hit the fan. You knew it intimately.

“You are not to know.” Illya stated. He started to get up, but you pushed him back down gently.

You gave him a stern look, much like a teacher or disapproving doctor. Exactly like a disapproving doctor. “Don’t get up. You’ll be on the ground before you can think. Now stay still.” With the towel, you dry off his hair and the drops on his face, trying not to be too invasive.

“I can do that myself.” Illya muttered.

You don’t stop. “Well I told you to not move, and doing it yourself means moving. Trust me, the less strain on yourself the better. Even if it is drying your damn self.” While this wasn’t really the time, you couldn’t help but admire the man a little. Was Russia experimenting with super soldiers? He was tall as hell, built like a tank, and didn’t even squirm that entire time. And those hands, _damn_ . He could probably hold a basketball in just one of those, now that’s an achievement. When you come out of your thoughts, you realize everyone was staring at you and you were _definitely_ obvious. You hastily finish up drying him off and get up, face burning. The towel was pretty bloody, but it was definitely your own fault for having white ones.

When you finished drying off the pouting manbaby, you grab the wet clothing and move to the kitchen, where you throw the rest on vacant chair backs and the coat rack. Hopefully they’ll dry okay. Illya is petulantly glaring, but hasn’t moved from his seat. Good. You grab a few glasses and fill them with water, taking them back to your guests.

You set the cups on the coffee table. “Okay, so I’m going to bed, yeah? You guys look like you need your sleep too. Wake me up if you need anything, and you-” Stare at Blondie. “Don’t move. Seriously. Rest your arm, or it’s going to open up and bleed everywhere on my blankets and couch and floor and it’ll hurt like a bitch. Capisce?” He gives a slight nod, and you turns to your bedroom, not bothering to close the door. There’s some shuffling and low murmurs, but the gentle sound of the rain and the softness of the bed take over soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost offensive, the way the bright sunlight went straight into your eyes. Like it had a specific purpose to get through that crack in the blinds for the satisfaction of fucking up your morning. Regardless, you roll over and crack open your eyes. Soft conversation is mingled with the smells of food on the stove. Last night felt like a fever dream. That’s what you get for staying up so late. After nearly a year of no contact with your Uncle, he just decides to call you up and _hey I hope you’re in the mood for a slumber party,_ _three random agents of mine are in a pinch and I would love if you could house them in your tiny apartment for a few thanks darling, sorry if this brings back the life you left. Also, they just got jumped so stitch em up. Thanks! Darling! Don't! Worry! About! Anything!_

 

You rolled out of bed before getting too sore about it, there’s probably good reason for the whole situation. Uncle Alex  _ did _ have his shit together usually. Regardless, there were now Three (3) mostly strangers in your apartment who could kill you at the drop of a hat. Not that you couldn’t put up a fight, but going so long without any practise had its drawbacks. 

 

The blankets were all folded on the couch when you walked out of the bedroom. Gaby was perched next to the stack and gave a warm smile when you entered. Illya was at the table, fiddling with a radio.

 

Your attention turned to Solo, who was tending to a pan of sizzling eggs. He had a quality about him that was just... smug, but above just a smooth greeting and a pretty face. He looked like a superhero from one of your comics, with the broad shoulders and square jaw. You stared at the stove. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.” 

 

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “So what's your deal? MI6? Medical training?” The inquiry was innocent, but it was clear there was still little trust. Fair enough. 

 

“Less training, more.. Experience? And yeah...Ex-MI6.” you replied. Eh, no use in hiding info. He looked somewhat surprised by that. 

 

“Ex-MI6? Now I’m interested.” Napoleon says, raising a curious eyebrow. Gaby was making her way to the table.

 

You return the look. “And you weren’t before? Aren’t I already the most interesting person you’ve ever met in your entire life?” you fake-pout. Solo grins at you. 

 

He’s about to retort when the radio sputters to life. Illya leans in further and continues to work at it. He flips between frequencies, intensely focused. Bits and pieces of conversation, words here and there, nothing substantial as he continues to turn the dial. 

 

“-- the state of--” “--sure? I can’t hear what--” “--in U.N.C.L.E., Come--” “--ave several good lo--”

 

“Wait!” You exclaim, just as Illya turns the dial back to where he was a second ago. “It’s Waverly!” Illya nods tensely. Solo and Gaby also gathered around the table.

 

“--ome in, U.N.C.L.E., I repeat, Come in! We’ve been compromised-” he paused, in the background there was some exclamation and.. gunshots? “You’re on your own--” Something crashes “--I’m sorry Darling, do--” He’s cut off by a large crash, and the signal goes silent. Illya spits something in russian, and slams the radio down on the table.

 

A tense beat of silence, and your heartbeat rises in the back of your throat. “Oh, no, no, Fuck!” you got up and started pacing around the room. “What the hell? He’s in danger!? We have to go after him! What was the mission? Who were you dealing with?” The panic was setting in, breath coming in shorter and heavier. Damn it, you should have known the minute he called. You fall onto the couch, elbows digging into knees. “We have to find him.” You manage through racing thoughts. The brief but intense panic began to subside, but the urgency did not falter. 

 

The three hadn’t moved. Illya was still angrily staring at the radio. Solo’s gaze towards you was curious, and Gaby looked worried as well. 

 

“We’re going after him, right?” you stared at the three. “Where was he last? He couldn’t have been at HQ, no one would be able to get in there, right?.” 

 

Solo broke the silence. “ _ You’re _ not going anywhere. We still barely know if we can trust you, and it’s dangerous, ex-MI6 or not.” He was at the eggs again, sliding a few onto plates with toast already on them. 

 

“Alexander Waverly is my uncle, and no shit it’s going to be dangerous. I’m prepared for that.” They were all staring at you now. You got up, grabbed the picture on the nightstand, and set it on the table. “But I can’t sit on my ass while he’s in danger. If there’s something I can do, I have to at least try. Please?” The picture was of a small girl, laughing as she sits on a man’s shoulder. While much younger, it was certainly Alexander Waverly, with a much younger you perched on his shoulder. “Is that proof enough that I am at least serious about this?” 

 

Napoleon set plates down, grabbing a few jars of jam and setting those on the table too. 

 

“We are on our own. Are you ready for that? To do whatever it takes?” Illya questioned. He didn’t seem enthusiastic about your involvement. 

 

You stared at him with all the certainty you could muster. “I am. And If you try to leave without me I will fight you.”

 

He tilted his head slightly. “You could not take me.” he mused.

 

Cocky much? Are all russians this.. fighty? “I’m not saying that I could or couldn’t. But I probably could.” you were provoking, just a little. You and Illya were focused on each other in a staredown that felt jesting and yet, a little serious. Fuck it, you could fight him.

 

Before Illya could counter, Gaby interrupted. “ _ Anyways _ . We won’t leave without you. I’m sure you will be valuable to the team.” she shot a  _ children, behave _ glare at the two of you. “We were investigating a family company with close ties to human trafficking and drug rings in Britain.”

 

You leaned back in your chair. “But why couldn’t MI6 handle this? And why Ipswich? It seems like a super powerful crime family would base themselves in London, or at least  _ Manchester _ , but not here.” 

 

“MI6 has been dealing with its own.. problems. They won’t be helping us anytime soon.” Gaby explained. “Ipswich had some things we needed to look into. The family, the Carters, are hosting a gala in honour of their eldest daughter getting married. The gala is hosting a few hundred guests, and many are going to be staying at the estate for several days.” You knew the Carters, whisperings of their involvements in sketchy business had reached you even in your days at MI6. They were the owners of several big corporations. She continued, taking bites of her toast. “Earlier attempts at exposing them have all failed. Our only choice now is a much more straightforward approach. We were here to acquire invitations to the gala, posing as a couple and their brother-in-law. We were only able to take one of them, which was for the couple only.”

 

You slowly paced back to the table. “And once we’re in, what are we supposed to do? And the Carter’s are in London, why are  _ you _ here?” 

 

Napoleon held a piece of your toast to your face. “First, we eat.” you took it, slowly munching as he continued. “Two of us are going undercover as the couple, where we’ll have to find the evidence we need to take them down. The head of the family, Elliot Carter, always has a notebook on him. This has a record of every transaction and crime committed by them. The law isn’t on our side in this case, but once we have the notebook, it’s over. We only recently heard of this notebook, because he keeps it very well hidden.” He paused thoughtfully. “Now, the invitation we got was for Dmitri Smirnov and his wife, Eleanor. We came to Ipswich to steal their identities, and invitations.They were distant contacts of the Carters, and they’ve never met in person.” 

 

“ -Which makes them the perfect covers. Several hundred people coming to the Gala, and you’ve managed to find them. Impressive.” you mused.

 

Napoleon nodded to Illya. “It was really the KGB. They’ve had their eyes on the Smirnovs. But more importantly. What can you do?” He shifted to you, resting his chin on a hand curiously. “You say you’re ex-MI6, and you’re capable with injuries. What else?” 

 

_ What else? _ “I can do whatever any other agent can do,.” You shrugged. 

 

“Of course, Dmitri is going to have to be Illya, and Eleanor...” Napoleon trailed off, looking between you and Gaby. 

 

Gaby shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve tried playing the wife. No thank you. Plus, I do think they saw my face yesterday, so I'm out.” She looked at Illya. “Sorry Illya, but I would rather not be the trophy wife this time either.” Illya nodded, he didn’t seem too bothered. 

 

Napoleon turned to you. “Looks like you’re going to be the trophy wife then.” To Illya. “And looks like you’re getting married again, Peril.” He said, almost gleefully. "Didn't take you for such a ladies man."

 

“I am a much better agent by myself, Cowboy.” Illya scowled. 

 

“We know, big guy, we know.” Napoleon laughed and clapped him on the back. He stiffened at the contact, but gave a slight smirk. “Alright, Mr and Mrs Smirnov. We’re going to London.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is been a while coming, and I apologize for the wait. I've been going through some tough times and I appreciate all of my readers <3 That said, it may be a while to update again. <3


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